The man in the pink polo shirt

was clutching a pile of picture books.
      "Waiting for him to choose another one," he told me looking at the small boy searching through the "returns" trolley.
      "There are heaps and heaps of good  books on this one," the small  boy  told him.
      "Yes, I know. Please just one more and then we can come back on Saturday and borrow some more."
      "These might not be there then."
      "No - but there will be more good books." 
A girl about two years older finished checking out her books and told him, "Hurry up! I'm all finished."
It all sounded very normal but I know them slightly and I know they are not a normal family. Their father is bringing them up alone now. Their mother was in the local hospice and she died just before Christmas. The shirt her husband was wearing had the  breast cancer ribbon on it. 
Over the past year I watched these parents try to prepare their children for the end. They did as much as they could together as a family. They endeavoured to give the children good times to remember.  They visited the library every week and read together every night. One of their mother's last requests was that the children continue to go to the library each week.
Their father is on leave over the summer. He will go back to work when the children go back to school. He told me, "My boss has been marvellous - but then her sister..."
Yes, her sister died that way too. It's never good but at least her children were in their twenties. These children are only in the very early years of school.
The small boy heaved a sigh, took another book and then checked out his books as well. By then I had returned mine and picked up the books I  had borrowed on inter-library loan. We went out of the library together.
       "Can we go and stand on the bridge?" 
       "Yes, no further."
The two children ran off to where the small footbridge crosses the creek which runs through the little park adjacent to the library. Their father heaved a sigh.
       "The last time they did that we were all there,"  he told me.
       "Playing Pooh sticks?" I asked.
He nodded and then managed a smile.
        "We can do that again when there is enough water in the creek."
He walked off to join them.
It won't ever be "again" in the same way but they will be all right in the end. I know what their mother was thinking. She talked to me. She never mentioned how ill she was.  We never talked about it. What we did talk about was the importance of books, of reading, of the imagination we can develop through reading - and of the way in which it can help us understand the world. 
They are going to need that.